Flash-365

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N brought a baggy sweater and sweatpants for me. A bathrobe for M.

M sits on one side of the table. N and I on the other. M picks a bottle off the ground and holds it to his eye.

“Hair of the dog?” he asks.

N and I give him a parental look. He hangs his head. Then, with his other hand he pulls a clump of Belly’s loose dog fur off the bench beside him. He holds it up.

“Hair of the dog?”

N laughs. I glare at him. He stops. M lets the hair fall back onto the bench.

“You need to stop with the magic.”

“I agree,” N puts in, playing supportive uncle to my single mother.

M nods.

“We need to call that pirate—“

“Magician,” M says.

“Pirate Magician,” I say, firmly. “He can come and fix all of this. Do you know his number?”

M nods. I hand him the phone.

“You need to call him and get him to fix this mess.”

M dials a number on my phone. He says a few things in Russian and frowns. He hands the phone across to N.

“It’s a woman, she is speaking too fast.”

N takes the phone and chats for a bit while M and I decide, silently, polishing off the whiskey is a good plan after all.

N hangs up the phone. He gives us a morbid look.

“He’s dead.”

“What happened?” M and I ask simultaneously.

N starts smiling. He fixes a serious expression.

“I guess he had a party, and, he fell from the balcony of his fifth story apartment.”

“Ouch,” M says.

“Yeah,” N continues, “well, he didn’t die then, actually, he stood right up and told the guests to throw his accordion down to him so he could play them a song, to celebrate, so, they did, and well,” N pauses.

“Well?”

“Well, it fell on his head and killed him,” N finishes.

I start to laugh but shake it off in time to not feel too guilty. I turn and give M a stern look.

“See?”

M whistles. “Man, that is some bad luck.”

“Yeah,” I say, “see where this goes?”

M nods. He looks down at his hands, solemn. Then, his face lights up.

“Wait, I know!” he cries.

He snaps his fingers.

“NO!” I cry. N and I both lunge at him. We each grab an arm. There is a pop in the center of the kitchen. We all turn. The Pirate Magician stands there, looking puzzled.

He walks over to us. He bends down and gives my ear a curious look.

“Ah!” He reaches behind my ear. He straightens up, dangling my other blue-checkered sock in front of us.

He drops it on the table.

“Abrah-Kadabrah!” he cries, laughs, then vanishes.

THE END.